


Node

by FurryBigProblem



Series: Node [1]
Category: The Imitation Game (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Translation in English
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-04-30 03:20:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5148374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FurryBigProblem/pseuds/FurryBigProblem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>AUTHER'S NOTES</p><p>'Damn it!' - Hugh’s favourite swear word in the film</p><p>It is said that Turing was a terrible chess player who always lost to colleagues. Not reconciled to his defeat, he created a chess program. However, no computer was powerful enough to run it at the time, so he had to adopt to manual operation, namely him calculating in person and moving strictly in accordance with the result.<br/>And still he lost.</p><p>Hugh was a chess master who had won lots of prizes and been to the Olympic. He did write a chess column at some point.</p><p> </p><p>TRANSLATOR'S NOTES</p><p>Turing’s prototype program was called Turochamp. He designed it to play semi-intelligently using rules of thumb to pick smart moves, and tried to implement the program in 1950 as soon as the Manchester Ferranti Mark 1 computer was constructed at the University, but never managed to finish the work. Turochamp was designed to play two moves ahead, calculating the hundreds of potential moves available.</p><p>Please kindly tell me if I make any mistake :).</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alas/gifts).
  * A translation of [节点](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4591389) by [Alas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alas/pseuds/Alas). 



#### Node 1

‘Visiting at 2 p.m this Saturday. If inconvenient ,please reply.’

Alan had no idea what to make of the telegram.

He had read through the words multiple times since he received it on Wednesday morning. He had even (not without shame) examined it to the light, hoping some hidden message might come out from between the words. It was only on Saturday morning - this morning - during his running exercise, that it hit him that there might not have been a hidden message to begin with.

But the signature was Hugh Alexander.

So there must be something. There alway was - every word he said and everything he did had some deeper meaning.

Alan began his warm-down jogging, otherwise he would begin to panic.

After the war, Alan left Bletchley Park for National Physical Laboratory (the NPL) to reconstruct Christopher, but Hugh did not leave. He entered Government Communications Head Quarters (the GCHQ), a reincarnated version of Bletchley. Thus, with London and post-war reconstruction between them, they barely heard from each other save for the few words passed by Joan.

…until this inexplicable telegram.

Hugh Mysterious Alexander, whom he hadn’t seen for long, was due to appear at his door step in ten hours. Alan decided he had a very good reason to panic a little bit, although he was unwilling to give in to that irrational panic.

At least not this early.

 

Alan personally thought himself not entirely incapable of handling a ‘human conversation’.

Conversation is achieved mainly by making dialogues, which is to say, by pronunciation and the combination of words, while its purpose is to convey a message or to express an expectation. However, more often than not, people tended to presume a mutual understanding of a certain subject. They would encode the information for the first time with rhetoric presumed to be familiar for both participants of the conversation, and then would do it for the second time with emotion. Only after that would they let themselves toss him the confused set.

Each stage was a huge challenge except for the literal meaning. The emotion was not actually the hard part, though. Mostly, Alan could recognise others’ feelings towards him - considering his past experiences, he could hardly call it a miracle - unless it was someone who was exceptionally good at conducting themselves, someone who was able to encode a simple sentence mercilessly with all those layers of gestures, facial expressions and tones.

Someone like Hugh.

Who was soon to be here.

God, I’m already panicking, thought Alan.

 

The sign of the panic was that he could not keep the disastrous evening in early 1941 from replaying in his mind.

It was one of the rare kind of winter nights - mildly warm and not very damp. For some reason, Hugh invited him to dinner.

At his place.

Thanks to Joan, there was no longer tensions between Alan and his colleagues, but entering another’s territory still unnerved him.

And it was Hugh’s territory. God knew Alan never worked up the courage to look him in the eye.

Those greenish grey eyes…

Hugh’s lodging was rented from local habitants. He had lived it to a typical cosy nest of a content bachelor’s. Piles and piles of newspaper and books thrived like mushrooms from every place. The bedroom door was left half-open, Hugh’s fine waistcoat and tie could be seen resting carelessly over the back of a chair, and laundry bags crouched in the corner like over-sized terriers waiting to be taken away by cleaners. Every time a breeze came in from the chink in the window, the scent of after-shave and shaving cream was sent all over the room from the lavabo with the smell of food in the kitchen.

Sitting in the small sitting-room, Alan wriggled uncomfortably. Even merely sitting there gave him a feeling of almost indecent intimacy，as though he was sitting in Hugh’s arms.

This was certainly not a good time to study his eye colour.

From where he was, Alan could hear Hugh complaining loudly about how the rationing made him unable to provide a decent dish. Despite being in the narrow kitchen, Hugh, just like usual, managed to adopt a most charming posture and kept it for hours - well maybe not so long.

But something was not quite right. There was a tightness in Hugh’s voice that alarmed Alan.

The atmosphere did not relax until food was brought in.

Alan had never imagined that it could be such a pleasure just to look at the food.

Diced meat and potatoes were placed carefully on one side of the plate with bread - they were yellow, while peas, greens and broccolis lined up on the other - they were green. It must had been hard to keep the dark red gravy in one place, for it was held in a separate little dish.

Hugh quietly cleared his throat across the table. ‘I suggest you start quickly. It was already half cold without all those arrangements.’

His own food was a dull mess. Hugh watched Alan as the latter ate happily through what was meant to be braised beef in red wine, and thought that soup was actually the top form of muddling yet Alan appeared to be unbothered.

He didn’t intend to remind him, though.

 

Tension descended once more while the two of them sipped their coffee after dinner on the sofa.

Hugh, unsurprisingly, was the one to break the silence. ‘Your vest -’

Alan could only watch as he reached out and pulled off a ball of fluff from the woolen clothing.

‘- is it from a pair of deft hands, with love?’ he asked and flipped it away casually.

‘Eh - no. No. Bought it from a store. Manufactured, I suppose.’

Hugh seemed to have made an great effort to hold back a less than pleasant remark. He quirked his lips into a half-smile. ‘It looks not bad. Soft, warm, and - goes with your eyes.’

Alan quickly moved his eyes away. Since when did they sit face to face?

A familiar anxiety crept over him. Alan understood that he was expected to give a response, but he could not since his mind was foggy and had no idea what was going on.

Hugh’s eyes were still fixed firmly on him.

‘You know, I like those ladies’ little hats in Bletchley.’

‘Everybody knows.’ Alan said quickly, quite pleased with himself for having something to say at last.

‘But…I quite love the terrible vests of men’s, too.’

As he spoke, Hugh moved slowly yet determinedly next to Alan. Between them, the fraction within an inch was quickly filled up by an unnameable sensation.

‘Alan, I know your feelings towards me. Actually, I did when I tossed you the figure “1,5,9”.’

Great, since I lack certain studies in this area, you can be quite a useful reference system, thought Alan. He could hardly breathe.

Hugh lifted his hand, and, with rare hesitation, placed it on Alan’s knee.

Alan stopped breathing altogether. He had ridden in heavy fogs, and now he felt just the same like that.

Except that this was drier, warmer and…better?

‘Now, I can’t say I bare no similar feelings. Alan, we - we can give ourselves a chance. I know, Bletchley is hardly the best place, nor is the war the best time for this. You may think me too realistic, but what if…what if this is the only chance? Alan, it’s worth a try. And we’re both clever enough, careful enough -’

‘No!’

That came out of no where. Even Alan himself was taken aback. Did I really speak? What did I say?

Before he could find the answer, Hugh’s hand was gone.

‘Fine. If you think so.’

For the rest of his time there, they only exchanged a few words of civilities in embarrassment before Alan literally fled, nearly forgetting his coat.

Guilt followed him all his way. Alan could feel that somehow he had disappointed Hugh, but, the thing was, he didn’t even know what Hugh was expecting.

 

After that incident, Hugh Alexander was still the friendly colleague and warm friend, but Alan knew they were never again so close as they had been that day, and he could not fathom whether or not he should be glad for that.

More issues followed close upon: Denniston, Joan’s almost quitting, the bottleneck of their research, and then the engagement. At the end of his tether, Alan had no time for anything else.

On the simple engagement ceremony, he sat away from the dancing floor and watched Joan dancing with Hugh. Both of them were laughing. They looked so great. He felt as if he was dreaming, or was just awoken, which solely depended on the perspective, he thought.

Joan deserved a husband who could always make her that happy, and Hugh -

Alan glanced at him and quickly looked down. His gastric acid was being secreted in large quantity, his stomach was twisted in knots, and the inefficiency of digestion resulted by that left the organ hanging heavily between his rib cages, approximately two inches from the heart.

Yet, illogically, people called it ‘heartache’.

 

Alan literally jumped as the doorbell went off and banged his knees on the tea table. Cursing under his breath, he limped to the door.

‘Old friend.’ Hugh smiled at him, glowing with pure joy.

‘Welcome -’ Alan sidestepped clumsily to let him in.

The host held the doorknob, at a loss what to do, but Hugh just ignored him. Looking very much at ease, he hung up his hat and coat and then stood himself in the sitting room, leisurely inspecting the decor inside.

‘If you sit down properly, then I can pour you some tea.’ Alan squeezed past him and was about to made his way to the kitchen when suddenly Hugh grabbed his wrist.

‘Is there anyone else in your home?’ Hugh asked in a low voice.

‘No,’ Alan, affected, also lowered his voice, ‘If you’re being followed…you can live in the study, just there. But I’ll have to tidy up a bit -’

Hugh gave him a quizzical look. ‘What’re you thinking about? I brought you something, is all. Might be a little troublesome if it’s seen by others, though.’

He led them to sit down and opened his briefcase. He reached into an interlayer, hesitated for a second, and then moved his hand to another zipped interior pocket.

From inside the pocket he drew out a folder which contained a stack of little bags made of parchment paper. In each bag there was a tiny dark spot, not bigger than a period in a newspaper article.

Hugh held the folder carefully in both hands and handed it to Alan. ‘Your Christopher.’

Instantly, the brightness of the world went up a level.

 

Alan took it with equal care, fearing that any rough movement might jumble them up. His mind was already running through all kinds of permutations and combinations, more than eager to decipher the message and bring back Christopher.

The parchment paper was thin and transparent, but it would be hard to see though once it was folded. Alan examined it from every angle but still couldn’t have a clear look. He dared not move them or take out the contents. Besides, the visible dots seemed too disordered to be any kind of known cipher.

Hugh leaned quite relaxed with one arm on the back of the sofa. He was actually smirking.

Alan finally gave up. Reluctantly yet very carefully, he put down the folder on the tea table.

‘H-how do you use, eh, their permutation to convey messages?’

Hugh shrugged. ‘You got me. I don’t know.’

‘B-but you just said…’Alan gestured weakly.

‘Oh, I shot the most important documents with a minicamera. These here are films.’

Alan supposed he must have looked stupid, because Hugh chortled.

‘Good God, your face!’ he laughed so hard that he had to wipe his eyes with a handkerchief, ‘I shall never forget that.’

Alan should have been angry, if Hugh hadn’t been so charming when he laughed.

Hugh dried his eyes, still sniggering. ‘Just a joke, fellow,’ and this time he drew out a stack of paper from the interlayer, ‘I’ve had them developed.’

There they were, all of them.

Alan turned the pages, and saw the familiar circle of Joan’s ‘g’s, Peter’s thin pointy ‘A’s, John’s plump ‘C’s and ‘D’s, and Jack’s stretched handwriting. Of course there was also his own writing which resembled a wavy line and Hugh’s posh cursive script that slightly tilted to the right.

‘Oh.’ Alan choked out the word. He blinked hard, but still his vision became blurry.

Silently, Hugh passed him the handkerchief. Alan accepted it, covered his face and did not take it off for a long while.

‘When?’

‘After Menzies gave the order, before we lit the fire.’ Hugh looked at him thoughtfully, ‘Anyway, Menzies appreciated you, and made the mistake of thinking all the cryptanalysts were the same as you. He didn’t even send a surveillant.’

‘Thank God, you weren’t.’

Hugh laughed again, but this time much more softly.

‘Haven’t you got something to say?’ he asked.

For a minute, Alan stared at him blankly. ‘Ah, yes. Thank you, thank you ver - very much.’

‘You’re welcome. And now, haven’t you a thing to do?'

This time it took Alan even longer. Hugh grew impatient. Exasperated, he opened his arms. ‘Now get over here and give me a hug, you damn bastard.’ 

The instant Alan moved near he was drawn into a strong embrace that lasted several seconds and that squeezed all the air out of him.  


‘I called you a bastard, but that was meant to -’ said Hugh in his ear.  


‘- to express intimacy and affection,’ Alan interrupted, ‘I know.’  


‘Joan trained you well.’ Hugh snorted and let go of him.

‘She didn’t train me.’ Alan objected.  


‘Whatever you say.’ Hugh’s eyes softened, ‘How I miss the days we spent working together in the Hut. Not the war, though, of course.’  


Or the spy, thought Alan. ‘Joan’s in GCHQ, too.’  


‘Yeah, but that’s a large institution with all those people and affairs. And she’s still unmarried. It’s not like I can go have lunch with her everyday.’ Realising that was beyond Alan’s comprehension, Hugh gave his hand a wave to indicate it was unimportant.  


However, right after that, he did something else that baffled Alan even more: he let out a long sigh, and fell silent.  


‘Alan.’ Minutes later, Hugh suddenly called him. Alan got a strong sense of déjà-vu.  


‘Alan, what I originally planned was to give you the prints and leave, but now, I find myself not really content to do so.’  


‘To show my gratitude, I should - I should find a good restaurant.’ Alan stood up and looked around, flustered, not knowing whether he had a book to consult.  


‘Good heavens,’ Hugh moaned, and pointed to his seat, ‘Sit down.’  


Sometimes he could be a bit bossy.  


Alan followed his order obediently. He put both hands between his knees, and listened anxiously.  


‘Alan,’ and Hugh said his name, again, ‘That day in Bletchley, it was thoughtless of me, so I can understand your refusal, but I…I don’t believe that was the end. I found the moment I entered that my feelings have not changed in the slightest. Alan, this is a second chance, and perhaps also the last one. After all, the war has ended, and things are not the same any more!’  


Alan did try. He tried his best yet in vain to come up with an answer, only to see Hugh’s good-looking, greenish grey eyes dim at his silence.  


‘Damn it, we bloody beat Hitler!’ Hugh croaked a dry laugh, his voice filled with bitterness, ‘Fine. At least you can’t blame me for bringing up the damnable suggestion once again. Because it does worth it.  


‘I should go now. Thanks for your hospitality, old friend.’ He stood up, ready to leave.  


Wait, once again?  


‘You said “once again”.’ Alan grabbed him by the hem of his coat.  


‘I did.’ Hugh frowned in confusion.  


‘So, you have made the same suggestion before.’ The retrieval range was considerably narrowed down. Alan’s heart thumped in his chest. He smelt the answer.  


‘Of course I d- Damn it!’  


Seemed Hugh had found another vital answer before him. Alan made an effort to push aside his childish curiosity and instead focus on the deduction.  


‘You don’t know what I’ve been suggesting at all.’ Hugh said tonelessly.  


Alan gratefully shook his head, hoping he could elaborate.  


But Hugh just buried his face in his hands and heaved another long, pained sigh. ‘I hate you.’  


‘Ah.’ Well that was a bit hurtful.  


‘No! No no, Alan, that wasn’t what I meant to say.’ His one hand was on his hip while the other, clutched in a fist, waved vaguely in the air.  


‘What I meant was - was that -’ he stumbled over his words, and coughed before he could continue, ‘ that I love you, and that I am sexually attracted to you. Also, that if you don’t mind, I would like to spend the life with you. How about that?’  


Alan gasped.  


‘Too straightforward now?’ Hugh raised a brow with sarcasm.  


‘…y-yes.’ Alan swallowed, ‘Fine…I mean, I don’t mind.’  


‘You’ve accepted.’ A small smile appeared on Hugh’s face.  


‘I, eh, because, I, eh, l-love you, too.’ The words were like the last turn of the Rubik’s Cube that made all the colours finally fall in place.  


‘I knew it.’ Hugh gave a resonant laugh and tossed away his coat.  


He’s going to stay longer, thought Alan. The finding pleased him a lot.  


‘So, w-when did you -’ Alan cast him a shy look and pointed at himself.  


‘Remember the day I lost my temper? Not my proudest time, by the way. You were frightened to death but still tried to shield your Christopher. And I thought, good God, the fellow actually believes his machine can work, so, just maybe, this is not actually an entirely terrible idea.’  


Was that supposed to be sarcastic? Miraculously Alan took no offence. It might be because of Hugh’s gentle tone, or perhaps the warm hand on his neck, or probably the fact that Hugh was kissing him.

 

TBC

 


	2. Chapter 2

#### Node 2

#### 

‘Check.’ Hugh picked up his white knight and tipped Alan’s black king off the chessboard.

‘…!’ Alan had been curling up in his pajamas, but this turn of events made him sit up abruptly and gape.

Hugh savoured his victory. He had to admit that the pleasure of playing chess with Alan came solely from the other’s behaviour when lost.

‘Again?’ Alan reset the pieces and looked to him expectantly.

Hugh checked his watch and sighed. ‘I have to go now.’

‘Please?’

‘…I have a conference tomorrow, and all my materials are at home. You see my tie?’

Alan pointed in the general direction and unhappily collected the pieces.

Hugh reached to his tie, but suddenly flinched. A hand covering a spot up his thigh, he exclaimed, ‘God, your nails!’

‘To be fair, it might be your own.’ retorted Alan automatically.

‘Indeed it might,’ said Hugh. He stood up from the easy chair and buttoned his shirt which had been draped around his shoulders. ‘You’re going to have a lecture, too, so don’t stay up too late.’ he told Alan.

‘How am I going to improve without practice.’

‘There won’t be much chance even if you practise,’ Hugh smugly patted Alan on the shoulder, ‘You owe me another six pence now. Don’t forget to put it in my “Winning Pot”.’ Alan’s staring eyes suddenly sparkled. Fascinated by the fleeting look, Hugh fastened a wrong button.

‘I don’t think I can beat you,’ Alan said slowly, his tongue struggling to keep up with his brain, ‘But still, I didn’t think I could beat Enigma.’

‘Oh, Alan, I am so flattered.’ Hugh bent down and kissed him, but Alan pushed him away impatiently.

‘Let me finish. The outcome of the possible permutations and combinations is a finite number.’

‘Say an astronomical one.’

‘Attainable nonetheless. If - if I - I enter all the possibilities into a machine, then the machine, theoretically, will be cleverer than any known chess master.’

‘And it’ll have to know how to choose one combination over the others and beat the opponent.’ Somewhat irritably, Hugh found his brain running again after eleven o’clock. Very nice, he was certainly going to enjoy a super logical dream tonight.

‘An optimizing algorithm will do. Exactly how I haven’t worked out yet. But, Hugh, you have to admit that the problem is solvable.’ Alan pressed his lips together, looking quite confident, as though he had already won a game.

‘Alan,’ Hugh sighed while smiling, ‘You can’t solve everything with a machine.’

‘I can solve this with one. You just wait!’ Alan declared and closed the chessboard with a click.

 

Unsurprisingly, Alan took the ‘chess-playing machine’ very seriously. Formula-filled papers and graphs climbed and, soon, covered up his walls like sweet peas. If Hugh stayed for breakfast ( which happened more and more often these days; he even stored a bag of flour in Alan’s kitchen in case he fancied muffins ), he would walk around the room, water the pots of evergreen, and in the meanwhile nurse the diagrams on the walls with some more formulas.

The meaning of the word ‘pastime’ didn’t seem to consist of so much ink or this many figures before - and when had that been? Sitting on the floor, Hugh stretched his legs and flexed his numb ankles. Pieces of paper scattered all over the floor. He had the impression that they did have some sort of order when they started, but the speed at which Alan produced drafts was far higher than that at which they could be organised. Perhaps even the man himself had lost clue. At the moment, he was lying on his stomach, his tongue between his teeth, and his fingers and - God - pajamas stained with ink.

The soft noise Alan made during his ‘pastime’, the coolness of the floor and the smell of ink that had long permeated the room all gave Hugh a sense of blessed sleepiness. As a result, it was less than exciting to think of having to return to his own place in the sticky summer rain.

 

‘Ha!’ cheered Alan. With a triumphant gesture, he let his pen fly from his hand.

Instantly Hugh was awake. Taking after the other, he, too, lied on his stomach and propped himself up on the elbows.  


‘Look.’ Alan nudged him with his shoulder and pointed out the major steps from the mess.  


Hugh followed Alan’s fingertip. ‘It’s intended to find the optimum to the current state.’  


‘I did try to think further, but existing machines can’t calculate that much. Even Christopher isn’t that smart.’ Alan grumbled - wait, was he pouting?  


Hugh estimated the workload and pondered for a long while before finally settling on being frank. ‘The existing machine might not be able to solve this, either.’  


Afterwards he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing out loud at Alan’s stunned look.  


‘Alan?’ Hugh called him tentatively.  


‘Go away.’ Alan let out a defeated moan and flopped face-down into the puddle of papers and pajamas.  


He will cover his face with ink. Just as well the other could not see, Hugh took his time smirking silently.  


‘I’ll calculate it myself.’ the words came out muffled.  


‘You’d better not let me catch you burning midnight oil. You’re human. You need to eat, to sleep and to exercise!’ Alan was always childishly competitive when it came to games. It was also kind of endearing, but it would be outright ridiculous if he skipped meals and sleep for this.  


‘I’ll find the time.’  


‘Alan.’  


‘I’ll manage.’  


‘Alan -’  


‘You can’t find out anyway.’  


‘Alan!’

 

Alan turned his head. A blue eye peered out from the mess of hair and cotton. ‘The result will merely be a series of symbols. You can’t know who - or what - produced it.’  


‘No, indeed. But I can tell whether you sleep enough.’  


‘No no, Hugh, I -’ Alan sat up on his heels and waved his hands in a vain attempt to compensate for his slowness in tongue.  


‘Imagine a machine, a clever machine, really clever, with, eh, an astronomical amount of data. And a suitable algorithm to convert inputted information into a code intelligible to the machine, then decode the answer into our language. Then, Hugh, how could you know you are communicating with a machine?’  


‘God, I couldn’t!’ Hugh was intrigued, ‘Unless somehow, I knew how it works.’  


‘Unfeasible,’ claimed Alan, ‘First, you don’t know how precisely humans work, and no one does…oh well, not yet. Therefore, even if you could see the difference, you wouldn’t be able to explain. Exchanging certain information in a certain period of time so as to speculate on the other’s intention, that’s what humans do in conversation,’ Alan rose to his feet and paced around the room to get his ideas in order, ‘Hugh, what do you think of this: no human can completely understand the other every time he’s in a conversation, so -’  


‘- a machine clever enough could fool all the people on some occasions, or some people on all occasions,’ Hugh laughed in amazement, ‘This is - extraordinary!’  


Alan looked down at Hugh. A curious overwhelming sensation filled his chest. He had just commented on the rarity of a total understanding yet now he experienced the beautiful small probability event in person.  


‘Stay.’ Alan sat again beside Hugh, and stared at him.  


‘Um?’ Hugh was confused by the sudden change of subject.  


His confusion and resignation gave Alan another totally different yet equally wonderful feeling. Hugh would always try to decipher his words, or just wait patiently for him to put those disordered words into complete sentences and then respond in a unique way of his.  


Alan thought that maybe he would never know the way Hugh’s mind worked.  


God, let me study for ever.  


He struggled to translate the nonlinear thinking in his head into linear expression.  


What a dreadful work.  


Yet how nice he felt.  


‘Stay.’ Alan repeated.  


‘Tonight?’ Hugh widened his eyes innocently and looked at Alan through his eyelashes.  


‘N-not just tonight. I hope - hope you can move in, or I move out to your place. Seeing my things aren’t easy to move, I’d be very grateful if you consider the former.’  


‘Wait, Mr Turing who never plays with others has invited me to live with him? Oh, good God, the dream is too good, please don’t wake me up.’  


‘I just can’t work with idiots,’ Alan turned away awkwardly, but sneaked a look at Hugh, ‘Y-you are different. You help my brain work better, and all the other organs so if you can, eh, if you’d als-also like to live with me, we c-we can-’  


Hugh exhaled and smoothed back his hair. Alan actually made him shy.  


‘My pleasure,’ he saw Alan smile his personally favourite smile, but he just couldn’t help being a spoilsport, ‘But you know, then you’ll have no time to calculate the program.’  


‘…I can bear that.’ Alan replied after a good deal of contemplation.  


And without a warning Hugh gathered him into his arms.  


That was nice, to feel the laughter created by the vibration of his chest, instead of waiting for the sound to propagate through the air.

 

During the moving, Hugh never saw Alan spend his little rest time on the program, so he just assumed that Alan took it as no more than a leisure activity. Soon the matter was out of his mind.  


A week later, when he sat down at his desk, he found among his post brought by the caretaker a letter signed ‘Alan Turing’, inside which was nothing but a page of symbols in algebraic notation.  


A smile formed on his lips. He put the piece of paper away as he decided to work on it at lunch. He had never played against algorithms before. He must be prepared.  


‘Alexander, are you writing a chess column for some daily?’ asked a colleague. The remark was accompanied with others’ friendly laughter.  


‘Merely a little game from Professor Turing.’  


‘Turing?’ the colleague gasped in awe, ‘I bet he’s great at chess.’  


‘You can’t imagine.’ Hugh laughed.  


‘No need to be modest. Your department is going to work on a large project with the NPL isn’t it?’ his least favourite colleague cut in sourly. Hugh internally rolled his eyes.  


‘It’s just a pastime. But...’ he spread his hands casually, ‘…with Turing, who knows? It might end up changing the course of human development, you can’t know.’

 

It turned out to be a tough game. That was mainly because Alan made only one move a week. Another reason was that the two had developed other pastimes since they moved together.  


It was six months later that Hugh, slightly wistfully, made the final move. By the time he arrived home with the script, Alan had already changed into his comfortable pair of sweatpants, absorbed in a journal on biology - a new interest of his.  


Just almost, Hugh couldn’t bring himself to tell him.  


He took out the piece of paper and handed it to Alan. ‘Check.’  


‘…Damn it!’

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHER'S NOTES
> 
> 'Damn it!' - Hugh’s favourite swear word in the film
> 
> It is said that Turing was a terrible chess player who always lost to colleagues. Not reconciled to his defeat, he created a chess program. However, no computer was powerful enough to run it at the time, so he had to adopt to manual operation, namely him calculating in person and moving strictly in accordance with the result.  
> And still he lost.
> 
> Hugh was a chess master who had won lots of prizes and been to the Olympic. He did write a chess column at some point.
> 
>  
> 
> TRANSLATOR'S NOTES
> 
> Turing’s prototype program was called Turochamp. He designed it to play semi-intelligently using rules of thumb to pick smart moves, and tried to implement the program in 1950 as soon as the Manchester Ferranti Mark 1 computer was constructed at the University, but never managed to finish the work. Turochamp was designed to play two moves ahead, calculating the hundreds of potential moves available.
> 
> Please kindly tell me if I make any mistake :).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay!  
> After mid-term there was a large increase in homework and I had no time to translate the story, but now the winter vacation has come and I'm free again. :)  
> Hope you enjoy this new chapter.

#### Node 3&4

Hugh made their dinner. Then the dinner went cold. And Alan still was not back. 

He should have returned by now, even if he had dawdled in the lab. Having made three phone calls in a row to the other’s office and unanswered, Hugh grabbed his umbrella and decided to go have a look himself. 

He nearly bumped into the man when he opened the door. Standing on the doorstep, gaping with his key in hand was Alan. 

Hugh sighed in relief and pulled Alan inside. He was less than pleased to find his hands ice-cold and his coat dripping wet. 

‘Go take a shower and warm yourself up.’ Hugh wanted to add some cutting remarks, but held himself back in time, ‘What kept you so long?’ 

‘There was a little p- something.’ Alan was facing him, but didn’t seem to be seeing him. His blank look swept awkwardly down Hugh’s face to the floor. 

‘Explosion’ was the first word that popped into Hugh’s mind, but after a hasty examination he found neither blood nor burns. 

‘Unless you’re on fire, nothing can be a good excuse for soaking yourself in cold water.’ Hugh fumed. He stripped the coat off Alan and hung it behind the door, leaving it dripping. The wet socks were also tossed in the doorway.

 

However, neither food nor the hot shower could make Alan explain what happened, and he was still silent by the time they lay down in their bedroom. 

Alan curled up into a tight ball. Even from two inches away Hugh could notice the rigidness in his body. Tentatively he touched Alan’s shoulder and rubbed his tight muscles. 

A long time passed before Alan let out a shaky sigh in which Hugh vaguely heard his own name. He waited patiently and moved closer. 

‘A colleague in NPL, eh, he doesn’t like me very much. And he s-said, in private, something not very nice.’ 

His voice was completely avoided of any emotions, but Hugh was overcome by a sudden wave of rage. Alan seemed to hear his internal snarl. He turned over quickly and held his hands. 

‘It wasn’t his words. But - but…God, Hugh, I think he knows I’m homosexual.’ 

In his hold, Hugh’s hands clenched into fists.

 

Fear flowed silently between them. The thin sheet felt suffocatingly heavy while the walls around them appeared surprisingly fragile. The window clattered in the spattering 

rain and could hardly keep the water outside. All of a sudden, the tiny space sectioned off by six walls was no longer safe in the malicious world. 

But on second thoughts, it had never been. Only now the illusion was gone. 

‘Seems we’ve got some little trouble,’ Hugh managed a smile and tried to stay calm, ‘Does he possibly have any proof?’ 

‘I…I think not. He just said he could ‘see through’ me, and, eh, because of that, I am even…even worse than what I appear to be.’ 

Hugh sighed, and heard his own breath shaking. He hated being vulnerable. He didn’t even have a good reason to beat the man. 

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he pulled Alan closer and let the latter lean on him, ‘No one will risk being sued for defamation to try to remove you, although stupidly they regard you as a bad person.’ 

‘Really?’ 

‘Really. Besides, if you two do end up in court, one is certainly going to end in disgrace. If those in NPL have a brain, they’ll never let it happen.’ 

‘I doubt it,’ said Alan with a snort, ‘They aren’t even half as clever as you.’ 

‘I might as well take it as a compliment,’ Hugh stoke Alan’s back gently, ‘But, Alan, if anyone asks, you…you may want to keep silent.’ 

‘Another secret.’ 

Hugh gave a bitter laugh. ‘At least it’s a sweet one.’ 

‘When I was…when I was outside today, I thought about shifting my work to Manchester,’ murmured Alan, ‘They invited me to work there on a project about universal machine. N-nobody…knows out there…but I’ve only made some progress here, I can’t go at this moment and start again.’ 

‘Alan, you can always restart a research, but not your life,’ Hugh mused, ‘If things really worsen, that is actually a practical solution.’ 

‘But you are in London, too!’ Alan twisted fretfully in Hugh’s arms and impatiently pointed out the obvious fact, ‘Why should I leave my work at hand an-and you, and hide elsewhere?’ 

For a while, Hugh was rendered speechless. He never doubted Alan’s affection for him, but hearing him saying - stammering - it out loud was quite different. Not until a long time later did he notice Alan’s hand moving clumsily on his back. It was Alan imitating and trying to comfort him. 

‘I’ve calculated the probability of homosexuality being legalised in five years. The figure’s optimistic. It’ll be fine.’ whispered Alan despite the uncertainty betrayed by the slow drawl in the last word. 

The raised ‘fine’ amused Hugh, and the knot in his stomach loosened at the instant. He quirked up one corner of his lips. ‘Mm, I don’t know about that.’ 

‘It will be fine.’ As a defence, Alan announced more firmly.

 

Alan worked as usual in NPL and King’s College. The thing he dreaded most did not happen. Maybe Hugh was right - neither of the two places could bear losing him. 

However, he had already seen that his citadel of science was constructed merely of pieces of paper and glass, and he worried that one day it would finally give way and collapse and crush them both. 

The disaster occurred in an unexpected way. 

The housekeeper took a two week’s leave, so they hired a casual worker to tidy up whose work was, frankly speaking, not very satisfactory. Luckily Hugh had to go to America for one week, thus the conflict was efficiently defused by the Atlantic Ocean. Alan just responded to whatever problem with his usual indifference. 

It was another rainy English winter evening. Alan rode back home by habit. Both his trouser legs were soaked, but his mood was not so dampened. The postgraduates from his two tutorials that day did not perform very well, but after all they worked much harder than those from two days before. Alan kept in mind the new topic that he would discuss with Hugh: can students think? 

If only he could come back sooner. Alan has already got loads of topics for him. 

He opened the door, and was rooted to the spot in sheer shock. He did see, but it was only about ten minutes later that he actually realised what all those pieces of paper and glass should have been. 

Terror shot through his chest. Alan’s whole body trembled uncontrollably. 

The approaching siren did not help the matter. Alan’s legs went limp. He lost his balance and his shoulder bumped into the doorframe. 

The pain snapped him out of his daze. I need a remedy, he thought.

 

When the two officers entered, Alan, with a scarf covering the lower half of his face and his goggles on, was slowly sweeping calcium oxide up from the floor. 

Considering how the place was lived in by the two of them, three pots of ferns, one Evergreen and their housekeeper - an old lady with presbyopia, Hugh resolutely refused to let in any hazardous substance. Therefore, in that moment of desperation, Alan could only think of the lime they reserved for painting the storeroom wall. The only thing he could count on was the sense of self-preservation of the London police. 

The two men - one detective and a sergeant - noticed his careful protection and stopped at the door to the study. 

The detective cleared his throat. ‘Professor Turing, your neighbor reported a strange noise and a running figure. We’re here to see if you’re well.’ 

‘So do I look well?’ Alan snorted into the scarf. 

‘Do you need to report a break-in?’ The sergeant took out his notepad emotionlessly and tapped his pencil on it, ‘Excuse me, Mr Turing, but if you could put off your - eh - cleaning for a while, there would still be some clues remaining at the crime scene.’ 

‘But still you wouldn’t be able to find the chap who did this if he stuck his tongue at you,’ Alan stood up to face them at last, ‘What I could use right now is not a bobby but a really good cleaning lady, so unless you have the qualification I suggest you leave me alone.’ 

The inspector ley out a long-suffering sigh. ‘With all due respect, Mr Turing, as far as I see, this substance is quicklime and, is arranged on the floor by none but yourself.’ 

Alan’s shirt was soaked in cold sweat, though he still managed to find the nerve to smirk. ‘Are you accusing me of deliberately damaging my own study?’ 

‘The powder is piled up in neat cones which range from under your feet to…here. That’s not small an area yet no footprints can be seen - it’s white like the new-fallen snow at Christmas. And, seeing the weather and your still dripping trouser legs, I can only make so bold as to assume as such.’ 

Had the situation been any less severe, Alan could have praised the Inspector. 

‘An accident.’ He coughed quietly and tried to put on Hugh’s calm and dignified air. 

‘How unfortunate.’ The inspector said coolly and flicked open his notepad. 

But before he could continue his interrogation, Alan spotted a tall thin figure behind the two men. Hugh stood in the door way, frowning, and took in the whole situation, rain dripping from the brim of his hat to his collar and shoulder. 

He was back early. 

Alan’s strained nerves relaxed at the instant and a dizziness came over him. He was privately proud of not leaning on any furniture. 

Hold on, he told himself, the hardest part has begun.

 

‘And who are you?’ The inspector finally couldn’t hide his annoyance anymore. 

‘Hugh Alexander. I live here, too. I work for the GCHQ.’ Hugh took out his papers with an air of impatience. 

‘Mr Alexander does live here.’ confirmed the sergeant. 

The inspector went through the papers carefully before handing them back to Hugh. ‘We suspect there has been a break-in in your house and probably a burglary as well, but here your flatmate -’ 

‘Colleague.’Hugh corrected him, ‘Mr Turing is adviser in GCHQ and is in charge of some significant projects with me.’ 

‘And live with you?’ The sergeant raised an eyebrow with irony. 

Hugh shook his head in a courteous yet, at the same time, pitying manner, as though he was forced to explain a really complicated scientific problem to some really simple students. ‘I’m afraid you do not understand the way we scientists work,’ he made a solemn gesture, walked past Alan who had rooted to the spot, and pointed to the numbers, formulas and drafts that covered the wall, ‘Thinking is not a nine -to -five job. 

‘What’s more, rentals for lab has cost a large part of the fund for the project, so if Turing prefers to restore this place to proper working order as quickly as possible instead of checking over property and catching pilferers, I can hardly differ with him.’ With his eyebrows raised, he exchanged a look with Alan, as though he never expected these laymen to understand the significance of the fact. 

The sergeant seemed reluctant to spend any more effort on this trifling case, so he quickly accepted Hugh’s story. Although the inspector was sceptical, he had nothing to say. 

Hugh complimented the two men on their sense of duty on behalf of King and Country before ushering them out. When he returned, he heaved a sigh of relief and took off his hat and coat.

 

‘What a mess,’ he tipped his head, ‘Quicklime, really?’ 

‘Couldn’t think of other things. They might not go rummage in the bedroom so soon if they think I was hiding something in the study.’ 

‘Don’t move. I’ll get the vacuum cleaner.’ said Hugh. 

He was not an expert in cleaning. He spent over half an hour just managing to clean the room and Alan. 

‘Seeing the windows and door are undamaged, I suspect the horrid cleaner.’ Hugh sat down next to Alan and stretched. Alan did not reply. 

‘Alan, there’s something on your mind. What else happened?’ Hugh moved to pull him close, but Alan shook him off. 

‘I think y-you may want to keep your distance.’ 

Hugh drew back slightly to examine him and said, ‘It’s all right. I’ve cleaned you well enough.’ 

‘No, I mean, keep a respectful distance.’ 

Hugh’s face fell instantly. 

God, I don’t know if I can keep this up any longer, Alan thought. He searched with difficulty for words to express what he wanted - didn’t really want - to express. 

‘No matter how stupid the police is, they are capable enough to catch our even stupider cleaner, Hugh. And then it’d be us. You’re not safe.’ 

Hugh barked out a humorless laugh. ‘Alan, I thank you for your concern, but we can pull through.’ 

‘Pity. Whatever plan of yours - if you do have one, that is - is based on your assumption that I would like to be in the same boat as you.’ 

‘Don’t you continue.’ Hugh raised a finger in warning. 

Then suddenly Alan realised the flaw in his plan. He was of approximately the same age and build as Hugh; long-distance running even made him stronger than average men. Therefore, the gentleman’s agreement of not using violence on a partner might be invalidated. 

At the moment Hugh looked much more furious than he had ever be. 

Knowing what Hugh could do in rage, Alan could already taste blood on his tongue. 

But he continued nonetheless. ‘So what if I don’t want to stay with you? I’ve been tired of another’s imposition -’ 

Hugh’s fingers caught his collar in a death grip, and Alan, to his horror, was yanked to face the other man. His planned excuses stuck in his throat as Alan realised that his psychological line of defense was as misplaced as Maginot Line : Hugh was not going to strike him, rather, he would only speak - he was going to tell him what Alan was like in his eyes. 

And Alan almost regretted his action. He wasn’t ready for this. 

Please don’t say it. I can’t stand it. He wanted to tell Hugh, but stopped himself.

 

‘How a genius can be such an idiot as you is lost to me.’ Hugh said, word by word. 

Alan opened his mouth but didn’t know how to reply. 

A monster? Possibly. A machine? Probably. A criminal? Definitely. 

But he was certainly not an idiot. That just didn’t reconcile with the facts. 

Alan wasn’t hurt or ashamed, just confused. Hugh released him, pushed him back onto the sofa and turned away from him. 

‘Are you angry?’ Alan asked tentatively. 

‘Oh, no.’ Hugh answered calmly. He even smiled. 

‘Right. I was saying -’ 

‘OF COURSE I AM!’ Suddenly Hugh hit a cushion with so much force that Alan flinched. 

‘I was bloody lying! That was a proper lie! Has someone ever told you that even a schoolboy pretending to be ill to get a sick leave looks more convincing than you did?’ 

Now Hugh was really angrier than he had ever seen. 

‘You don’t even know what is good for yourself and you think you can decide for me?’ Hugh snorted. 

‘I know probability…’ Alan objected weakly. 

‘But your calculation is based on in complete, even misread data, besides, your record of goodness for fit is always on the low side - Good God, Alan, congratulations ‘cause you’ve finally managed to drive me mad.’ Still angry, Hugh waved his fist about in searching of something to punch. Finding none, he went back to hitting the cushion in frustration. 

His words stung Alan a bit, who sank gloomily into his seat. ‘You’re right.’ 

Hugh eyed him askance, finally sighed and gave Alan’s leg a pat, though probably with more force than necessary. 

‘I do not intend to believe what you’ve just said, but I’m still very angry with you. So, apologise, Alan. Then tell me the truth.’ 

Alan’s eyes wandered. He opened his mouth several times, just to close it again. 

‘I’m sorry.’ It was said very fast, followed by a long silence. He took several deep breaths so that he could go on. ‘I - actually I - I hope you don’t leave. I don’t want to be alone -’ The words were interrupted by abrupt sobs. He lift a hand to his eyes, but Hugh knocked it away. 

‘Mind the lime,’ said Hugh, wiping his face roughly with a handkerchief, ‘I know. But you’ve calculated the probability of the legalisation.’ 

‘B-but it’s inexact. What if it’s not soon enough? What if -’ Alan mumbled into the hankerchief. 

‘Calm down and breathe,’ Hugh stopped him gently, ‘Joan warned me that you might pull this trick. Alan, you mustn’t start pushing people away the moment there’s some danger and try to face it by yourself, because, God, you’d never survive that.’ 

‘Joan warned you?’ 

‘Oh, yes,’ Hugh smiled, ‘She can be quite sharp when hurt. But she genuinely cares about you, and us.’ 

‘Us,’ Alan repeated. A faint smile appeared on his lips, although it was short-lived as worry soon clouded his face.‘Out there is a whole British society.’ 

‘And here we have as many as two people.’ Hugh pulled Alan into his arms and kissed him softly, ‘we will muddle through.’ 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHER’S NOTES
> 
> And here is a bonus that is likely to ruin your whole previous reading experience. PLEASE SKIP OVER.  
> PLEASE SKIP OVER.  
> One last time. PLEASE SKIP OVER.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> DI Lestrade rubbed his hair tiredly. Now he’d had more grey hair than his old pa farming back home.  
> The two men today, they were obviously sleeping together, but after all this was London - with all its murders, sexual assaults, abductions, armed fights, etc., cases of indecency like this must be put aside and wait for about twenty years so someone could spare a look at it. Unless, of course, someone had to open the case file and shout out their accusation.  
> Lestrade hated cases of indecency most. Living people died in the street everyday. There was no time to waste. Although, think on the bright side, the very next day he would be transferred to Montague Street, and this mess would be left to another.  
> They’d only met this once, but Lestrade had had more than enough of weird geniuses and condescending arseholes in three-piece suits.


	4. Chapter 4

#### Node 5&6 

Hugh walked around the room idly, and finally decided to prune the wildly growing potted plants. 

He needed to sort out files for the case, but now it was only 8 o’ clock on Saturday and he just wanted to occupy his hands as he waited for the water to boil. 

The sound of the doorbell gave him a slight start: it was too early - either Alan ran a circle less than usual, or he forgot to go to the market again. 

And he received the second surprise that day when he opened the door. 

‘Joan? What a delightful surprise.’ 

Upon seeing him, a happy smile lit up her worried face. 

‘You haven’t changed at all,’ her smile turned into an impish grin as she looked him up and down, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got more important guests today, do you?’ 

Hugh humbly - at least that was how he thought he did it - accepted Joan’s flatter. He always believed that one must be presentably dressed every minute where they were out of bed. 

‘Glad to see you, too, my friend. And unless there was going to be an apocalypse this afternoon and, somehow, I’d missed the forecast, you’re the most important guest of the week, even of the month.’ 

 

When they sat down on the sofa with the steam of hot tea floating between them, Joan’s worried look was back. She hesitated to speak. Hugh tipped his head, motioning her to spit it out. 

‘How is the case?’ Joan blurted. 

‘Normal people would ask “how is Alan”,’Hugh raised his eyebrows. Having been with Alan for long, it was hard to let pass this old joke. 

‘I assume that you’re still…together. And since you’re currently in a good state, I suppose he can’t be too bad, either. Thus, the case.’ Joan shrugged and fixed him with a determined look, daring him to change the subject. 

Hugh sighed. ‘Still dragging on, but there’s a good chance that the charge will be dropped. Alan and I haven’t had any…say, light-minded affaires since 1946. The police can’t get much evidence, and with only accusations from cleaner-thieves, they won’t be able to beat our lawyer,’ he rolled his eyes, suddenly leaned towards her and asked, ‘but really, even Scotland’s got the wind?’ 

For a second Joan looked perplexed, but then she saw the false panic and poorly hidden banter in his eyes, so she laughed. ‘No, no, of course not. It’s just me concerned about you. And after all, Casanova finally conquered by love, that somehow has a kind of romantic righteousness.’ 

‘Joan Clark, as aways,’ Hugh grimaced in defeat and patted Joan’s hand, ‘Now it’s my turn. How’s Jock?’ 

‘He is still battling hard with his illness, but I think he’s been benefited from the fresh air in Scotland.’ 

‘With you as a comrade, our soldier can win absolutely any battle.’ 

 

A crash was heard at the door. They exchanged a look: ‘Alan.’ 

‘Excuse me.’ Hugh said, getting up to help Alan open the door. 

Joan heard the rustling of paper bags and thuds as something fell to the floor, followed by the muffled rumbling sound made as they rolled about. Among all the noise, the sound of arguing came closer and closer. 

‘… If you base it on graph theory - Joan, tell this stubborn - Joan!’ Alan’s eyes sparkled at the sight of her, ‘You’re here!’ 

‘Obviously.’ 

Hugh took the bags from Alan so that the latter could give Joan a proper hug. 

By the time he was back from the kitchen, Joan was reassuring Alan patiently. ‘Of course I’m still working! If you think, after everything I’ve experienced in Bletchley and GCHQ, I could be satisfied with just bargaining for groceries, I’ll take offence. You’ve helped me a lot, Alan, starting by dragging me out of home.’ 

Hugh joined them. ‘Joan’s not here to worry you. In fact, I think it’s quite the contrary.’ 

‘Me? I’m fine,’ not wanting to waste any minute of this precious reunion on pleasantries, Alan skipped to things he wanted to share, ‘Christopher’s become so smart. I’m trying to use transistors to replace the old vacuum tubes. Soon it’ll be able to beat Hugh in chess.’ 

Behind Alan, Hugh threw at Joan an highly unimpressed look and mouthed, ‘Never.’ 

 

In their letters, Joan learned that Alan was also quite interested in the development in biology. Therefore, she was a little apprehensive that she might have to see some weird medical images, even, well, specimens. God knew that she could never stand those things, not to mention after hours of travelling by train. Fortunately, Alan suddenly remembered that she was supposed to be in Scotland looking after Jock who was ill. 

‘How could I forget that! Why are you here in London?’ 

Joan was too amused to even pretend to be irritated. ‘As a friend, I must come and see the two of you in this difficult time,’ then her eyes appeared softer, or rather sterner, ‘If needed, I can appear in court as a witness. So can Helen. She is willing, too.’ 

‘What good have I done to deserve to know these amazing ladies?’ Hugh said, in awe and deeply touched. 

‘Witness? Witness to me not being homosexual?’ Unlike Hugh, Alan looked grave. 

‘To a brave and generous offer of help, the best reply would be “thank you”.’ Hugh pinched the bridge of his nose, resigned. 

‘We h-haven’t done anything wrong, or shameful. Why should we hide the truth?’ Alan unconsciously raised his voice. 

Goodness, the case and all was really stressing him out. Hugh sighed inwardly. ‘I don’t think it shameful, either, but , Alan, it’s illegal. We need to keep ourselves away from prison, or that…that horrible treatment.’ 

‘Another lie.’ mumbled Alan. 

Apparently, his reason told him to listen to Hugh, though his emotion could not yet accept the fact. And Joan thought, look at him, he’s actually grown up. 

Pushing aside her untimely proud and wistfulness - so as not to get too emotional in front of friends - Joan pulled herself together and smiled cheerfully. ‘Look at us, this certainly isn’t an atmosphere for a reunion,’ she fished out a newspaper from her handbag, ‘Here! I brought it with me specially. Let’s do a crossword, just like old times.’ 

‘Excellent! I haven’t read today’s paper yet. Wait a minute…’ Hugh searched through the little basket where they put letters and triumphantly raised a copy of the same newspaper. 

‘In fact -’ Alan glanced shyly at the other two, and took out the third copy - slightly wrinkled and folded into a small piece - from his pocket. 

They shared a look with one another and laughed heartily. All was just the same as the spring of 1941. 

Hugh took off his watch and set it on the table. ‘Start when the second hand reaches 6.’ 

 

For a while there was only the tick of the watch and the scratching of pencils that filled the room. 

 

As Hugh had expected, the charge against them was dropped for lack of evidence even without the help from the ladies. Thus the whole affair, like a fully loaded lorry, turned in the last minute as it passed and allowed them a narrow escape. 

Now only Hugh occasionally paid some attention to public opinion, but even their colleagues and neighbours were uncomfortable about them, they englishly chose not to comment. In the mean time, Alan’s focus had already turned to something else. The revelation of the structure of biomacromolecules, especially the photos of double-helix DNA, excited him no end. 

‘Alan is like a hound eager to go out for a walk, keeping pawing at the door, and the moment it opens he’d rush out and bound around on the lawn of truth.’ Hugh wrote as such in a letter to Joan. 

There was no need to worry her with mere trifles when she was in Scotland, such as the stones that sometimes broke the front door window, and the fact that these days Alan had to enter his classroom a quarter in advance in case the students wrote some nasty things again - although King’s College was still free and open as it was in Alan’s memory, society, on the other hand, always had its limits. 

Hugh feared that Alan might feel depressed, but, in truth, the latter only felt grateful. For everyday being able to calculate, to design, to work, and to hear the humming as Christopher ran; for forty to sixty minutes after his return to home, Hugh would turn up at the same doorstep. And he often thought thankfully that he was not alone. 

 

However, their secret remained heavy on his tongue. 

Alan never really understood the thing about keeping a secret. Considering his occupation as a cryptologist, it would be hard to ignore the dark humour in the statement. But dark humour was Hugh’s area, he had no intention to intrude. There were times when he felt the secret burning, and he thought it must be so sweet if he could spit it on the faces of the police and the curious audience at court. 

He would have done just that if he had been alone. Come what may. He couldn’t have cared less. 

But every time he bit his tongue and kept his mouth shut, because he must protect Hugh, just as Hugh did him countless times. 

_Love does not behave rudely. Love suffers long._

Alan was vaguely surprised that Sherborne really managed to drill Christian doctrine into his mind. He was going to end up in Hell anyway. Doubling his eternal punishment by citing _the Bible_ backward was but a minor problem.

Every time the snow or rain lasted about a week, the lock would get stuck. With his mind solely on adding two infinite numbers, Alan reached his key to the lock, and, unexpectedly, the door opened at the touch. 

The front door was unlocked, but the room was dark as the lights were off. Alan’s heart quickened. Could it be another break-in? Then he found Hugh sitting in the living room, his head down and his elbows on his knees. 

‘Hugh? You’re back early.’ Alan went over tentatively. 

‘I have the afternoon off.’ Hugh glanced up. His voice sounded hoarse, as though he hadn’t talked for hours. Alan noticed that his eyes were reddish about the rims and the other didn’t even take off his coat when he was indoors, regardless of the wrinkles he made in the fabric. 

Alan sat down by him carefully and silently slipped an arm round his shoulder. He could sense that something big had happened, so big that his emotion was left far behind his sense. 

‘You haven’t read today’s paper?’ asked Hugh. 

‘Only the crossword puzzle.’ Alan answered honestly. Hugh chuckled. 

Alan moved closer to him, feeling somewhat less hesitant. ‘What happened? Tell me.’ 

‘No need to worry…oh, sorry for scaring you.’ he reached into his coat pocket and drew from underneath him a damp, wrinkled newspaper - that day’s Times, ‘We’re safe.’ 

The committee led by Lord Wolfenden has found that homosexuality cannot legitimately be regarded as a disease…homosexual behavior between consenting adults in private should no longer be a criminal offence… 

Alan’s eyes ran over the words, and only when they appeared blurred did he realise that his hands were trembling. Then his emotion finally caught up and responded. Relief flooded over him. 

They fell on the sofa clasped in each other’s arms, tears running down their faces. The tears felt like fire against their skin which had long been frozen in the cold outside. 

‘We’re safe.’ Hugh repeated. 

The light of street lamps filtered through their curtains, framing everything inside with a dim outline, and the fragile walls around them stood as their protection. It was home. 

 

 

 

#### Node 7

Alan and Hugh walked along a narrow lane in Cambridge as they shared their memories of King’s College - the year when the former graduated was just when the latter entered the college. 

The lamps gleamed dimly, colouring the lane a shade of orange. Students were clearly having fun around the area, as every now and then, the ringing of bicycle bells, laughters and even singing would, together with the fog, reach them and drown out their footsteps. The two of them swapped stories about their mutual acquaintances. It was as though the old days were with them , accompanying them like an old friend, occasionally nodding in agreement : indeed, back then - 

Hugh had a lecture that day to introduce the GCHQ and attract young scientists, but privately he was not hopeful. 

Good Heavens, since when was Cambridge like this? 

‘Those - those hair, and the flared trousers,’ Hugh shook his head slightly, ‘I don’t expect the younger generation to keep the older’s taste…but at least tell me suits are still on sale.’ 

‘Letters from Sorbonne say it’s even worse over there.’ Alan made an attempt to move his shoulder, but found himself unable to move. 

He turned and realised why : Hugh’s arm was draped around his shoulders in a rather intimate way. 

‘Eh, Hugh - ?’ 

‘Relax. It’s the revolutionary year of 1968, and we’re here in our old King’s.’ Hugh chuckled. He seemed back to his twenties, a young man enjoying time with his lover, unrestrained, a cigarette between his lips. 

Alan’s lips curved up in a faint smile. His days in Cambridge were far less wild, but then who could say that they’d never tasted joy in the best years of their life? 

It was hard to tell who leaned in first. Their lips brushed against each other. 

And when they were interrupted by the sudden burst of voices, the kissed continued only for about five seconds. 

‘God, Alan, your students! I’m so sorry -!’ Hugh’s voiced sharpened in alarm. 

‘Eh…I think, it’s not that serious.’ Alan awkwardly greeted his students, his hand still holding Hugh’s. 

A group of students, boys and girls, apparently having just left a pub and on their way to another, whistled and cheered. Some boys raised their fists and punched the air, as if they had just won a God-knows-what match. 

‘Well done, old man!’ 

‘Aren’t you full of surprise, Prof! Well done!’ 

‘Vote for equality and love!’ 

‘All hail the liberation of humanity!’ 

… 

They responded cheerfully like they were facing one of their own. 

Hugh’s astonishment didn’t fade until they disappeared around a corner. Alan tugged at his sleeve. ‘So it seems I’m no longer an epitome of “an old stick”. Perhaps in the next class they’ll hate me less.’ 

‘Really?’ Hugh relaxed, though he was still surprised, and a bit amused. ‘An old stick’? Alan? 

‘Really. A boy with - hair like this,’ Alan wriggled his fingers beside his head, ‘once just jumped up in class and shouted, “Women and children are dying in Vietnam right at this moment. How can we sit here doing nothing but talking about numbers?” It was horrible, how the others all applauded him.’ 

‘Seems the world has changed indeed.’ Hugh shook his head with a smile and tightened his hand on the other’s shoulder. 

The flagged path, moistened by the fog, glistened with the reflection of lamplight, as the ancient brick walls and the signboards stuck out from those little stores all donned a soft, bright edge. 

And they walked through those all. 

 

 

 

#### Node 8

Alan stood at the door, holding both of their briefcases, and waited patiently for Hugh to open the door. 

The dampness in the air made the lock hard to be turned. One had to insert the key carefully, then turn it rather delicately. Because of that, Hugh often likened it to a cold and choosy lover. 

Now said ‘lover’ was far from satisfied. Alan turned his gaze to the street. The lamp above the door was lit, and in its halo, the slanting rain looked like thousands of golden threads. 

And Alan, all of a sudden, remembered another evening. An evening in 1945. 

 

That day they built a bonfire, with the fruits of their five years’ toil as fuel. 

It was a painful task. But, hell, who would have known that they had accumulated that large an amount of drafts and sketches! The physical exertion of moving the stuff soon drained their sadness, and when they finally cleared the hut, they even got a kind of cheerfulness and sense of achievement. 

It was already dark. Only the most distant cloud still had a lingering touch of rose pink. By the aid of that last bit of sunlight, they poured on the heap bottles of liquor. Alan had the honour to drop the lighted match. 

Standing by the mountain of paper smelling of alcohol, he hesitated only for a second before letting go of the little stick. 

The flame rose up, burning gold. Everyone held their breath, momentarily awed by the beauty of natural elements. 

Hugh brought beer. It was also him that suggested they have a match and see who threw the paper with the best aim, or do it the highest. They tried it the baseball way, the shot way, the javelin way, etc. They chortled, drinking cold beer. 

The fire, tossing jumping light around, lit up a large circle. Inside it, John looked the same friendly, guileless man Alan thought him was. Even Peter stopped distancing himself in that sad, accusing way. Joan’s hair streamed around her face, her brown eyes glowing. Hugh thought his game hilarious and laughed at his as well as the others’ tries. 

Alan attempted to make his pieces fly high enough so the fire couldn’t catch them. He failed a few times and then succeeded. But after a while, he found that he preferred to stand aside and watch quietly his happy colleagues - his friends. 

Then sometime later, He was joined by Joan. She stood beside him, arms crossed, her fine profile golden in the firelight. Hugh came and put his arms around their shoulders. Turning, Alan saw the flickering glow casted in his beautiful greenish grey eyes. 

Outside the small firelit circle, the huge, dangerous world was waiting to prey on them. However, Joan was with him, his courageous, clever friend. So was Hugh, the mysterious man. 

At the moment, Alan felt free, safe and happy, despite of the endless darkness waiting ahead. 

 

Hugh gave a cheer : the lock finally gave in. Mumbling that he must find someone to fix it that weekend, he pulled the door open and let Alan in. 

The dry, warm air indoors greeted them. After standing so long in the cold rain, it felt so good. 

Alan quickly walked in. Hugh followed and closed the door behind him. 

 

 

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> If there is anywhere not British or not ENGLISH, please kindly tell me so that I can correct them.


End file.
